Memory as camera.

Most of us don't even want to comprehend the world before cameras. So much lost to the past, bound by mere description, faded by imperfect memory. But we still live it, in every photographable instance in which we do not have a camera on us, or every circumstance that shields us from taking advantage of the moment.

Last fall I snuck away to an old cemetery by my job to snap the changing colors of the trees. As I left, hurrying across the street to the car, a wind blew and dozens of leaves were swept into the air all around me. It left me kind of dazed - it was so awesome but there was no way to stop right there and capture the moment. And then it was done, and all I could do was try not to forget it. In a way, I realized that I was an integral part of the "photograph," as well - the leaves were swirling around me, after all.

This spring I was coming home and right as I turned into my apartment complex, I spotted a small plot of grass ahead of me on the side of the road. It was literally bathed in sunlight, so golden as to almost be white-gold, and the grass was tall and free and the wildflowers were stretching their necks, and all I could do was commit it to memory and turn left, into the complex, away from the moment. The sun receded behind a wall of clouds quickly.

The human experience is still the human experience in every way.

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